This Is It, Boys, This Is War
by piperkathleenpotter
Summary: When the love of his life is reaped into the Hunger Games, Sam Evans volunteers to join her. Fabrevans feat. St. Berry
1. Chapter 1

_Sam_

There are a lot of things he should be doing today—herbs to be gathered and ground up for his mother's medicines, and the counters and backroom need sweeping—but the only thing Sam can think of is Quinn.

Besides, it's not like any chores are actually getting done today. Everyone has somebody to say good-bye to.

He ducks out of his house while his family still sleeps, carefully pulling the door shut behind him so that the click of the latch doesn't alert either one of the twins. Their tiny bodies are curled together on a single pallet by the door, huddled underneath the softest, thickest blanket in the house. Neither one of them is old enough to be reaped, but he knows they're afraid for him.

It's a beautiful day, almost an assault to his senses, as if nature is trying to be as insulting as the Capitol that has taken control of her. The sky is so blue that it makes the back of his throat ache, a soft breeze winding temptingly from the river, the sun sending golden spokes above the trees.

If they lived in a world that was completely fucked up, he and Quinn would be by the water today, maybe with a small picnic, her head resting his lap as he wound lacks of her golden hair around his fingers like rings. He would steal a few kisses at her temple, her cheeks, the nape of her neck, until she melted and fell back on the grass, pulling him on top of her with that knowing smirk which always sets a fire in the pit of his stomach.

She's waiting for him outside the apothecary shop, wearing her reaping day best—a yellow dress with a white collar, her hair gathered up in a white ribbon. Her fingers play with the hem of her skirt, and her head is bowed. If Sam didn't know her so well, he would think she's praying, but he remembers what she told him once.

"_There's no place for faith here, Sam. Not anymore."_

Gently, he cups her elbow, and she looks up at him. Her smile is tentative, but still striking.

"Hi," she says, and stands up on her tiptoes for a kiss.

Her lips are a strange, intoxicating mixture of familiar and foreign; there have been a thousand little moments like this, some snatched by the very tips of his fingers, and others more slow and sweet. And still, each time, he can't believe that this is happening to _him—_that someone like Quinn would even give him the time of day, let alone press her body against his like this, her hands gripping his hips to pull him closer.

The kiss becomes fierce, almost painful, Quinn's teeth sinking into his lower lip until he feels a small pinprick of heat flare up as the skin breaks. Sam pulls back, his tongue flicking out to nurse the sore spot.

"I'm sorry," she tells him, lifting her hand to her own mouth. "I'm just—"

He nods, because she doesn't have to say the word for him to know. There isn't anyone in Panem today who isn't afraid.

"I know."

Sam rests his forehead against hers, his arms linking around her waist. In a few hours, they'll be standing in the town square with the rest of their district, the Capitol representative standing on the podium, hand fishing into one of the glass bowls that have the power to end a life.

He doesn't think he'll be able to stand it, watching her out of the corner of his eye, standing with the rest of the seventeen-year-old girls, the ribbon starting to fall out of her hair because she always forgets to tighten it. It's tradition to choose the female tribute first, the representative's long, expertly manicured fingers swimming through the slips of paper.

Last year, it was Adalee Mayde, a soft-spoken slip of a girl who had sat behind Sam in one of his classes. He remembers her screams; the way a Peacekeeper lifted her over his shoulder as easily as if she were a cloth doll, her fists seeming incredibly small as they pounded with useless, raw grief against his back.

Quinn wouldn't be like that, if they call her name. She'd be stoic, walking with her head held high like she's a queen among her subjects. She wouldn't look back at him, for one last glimpse of his face, his eyes, his lips mouthing _I love you. _

Somehow, Sam thinks this might be worse.

"I think they're going to pick me," she whispers, her fingers curling into the material of his shirt, and she dips her head to press a kiss against Sam's throat, just over the hollow between his collarbones.

His arms tighten around her without his permission, and he swears he hears the small of her back pop in protest. "No, they won't," he says, his tongue suddenly unwieldy in his mouth, like he's been punched in the jaw. "They won't, Quinn."

He bites down the rest of his sentence—_I won't let them_—because he knows, of course, that there isn't a damn thing he can do to protect her. The thought alone makes him so angry that he feels like he could tear their whole district up board by board and stone by stone.

"You don't know that," she says, looking up at him. "It could be me—"

"It could be anyone," Sam interrupts. "And a lot of people have their name in more than you do."

She looks at him, catching her lower lip between her teeth. "How many times is _your _name in, Sam?"

For a moment, he considers lying to her, but the impulse is gone almost as soon as it occurs to him. No one knows him better than Quinn does, and even otherwise, there's no point in softening the truth, especially when it's one of the few things the Capitol has left them with.

Even so, he doesn't want to tell her the specific number—thirty-seven—so he just says, "Too many."

When she kisses him for a second time, it's soft, tender. Her hands frame his face; one moves through his hair, delicately cupping the back of his head. Sam tries to keep his eyes open, wanting to see her golden-tipped eyelashes, the freckles splashed across her knows that are invisible until you're this close, but sensation pulls him under. The only thing he can do is lean into her, holding her as close as physically possible, hungrily moving his lips with hers.

"I love you," Quinn murmurs, her mouth still against his. "I love you so much, Sam."

"I love you, too."

He squeezes her gently around the waist, pressing his lips against her forehead, inhaling the scent of her skin that is so essentially Quinn. "We're going to get past this," he says. "We only have one more year, and then we'll be ineligible."

"And then what?" she asks, and he thinks that she doesn't intend for her voice to be as harsh as it is. "Do you want to have kids, Sam? So they can be in the Games, too?"

He doesn't say anything, because there isn't really anything to say. Sam does want kids, especially with Quinn, but the thought of bringing them into a world like this turns his stomach. The fear he has for her, for his brother and sister, would be a thousand times worse with children of his own.

Still…he can't help but picture a golden-haired child with Quinn's delicate features, nestled between them in bed, tiny fingers curled sleepily around his. If there was some way, any way, they could survive off the grid, he would go in an instant; he would take Quinn away from here.

But she wouldn't leave her family, and she would never ask him to leave his. And it's not like he really could, anyway; his parents rely on him, the twins look up to him. He couldn't just leave them behind.

After a while, she sighs and drops her head to his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she says. "It's not—it's not like you asked for this."

Sam turns his face into her hair, nuzzling. "No one asked for this."

He closes his eyes, just holding her on the street corner, and then there's a soft _mm-hem_ behind him. He doesn't turn, but Quinn lifts her head, and he feels her body tense with an audible click as her teeth come together.

"Daddy," she says, and she takes a step back from Sam, her arms falling away from his waist.

Mayor Russell Fabray wears a black suit and charcoal-grey shirt, as if he's going to a funeral, and in a way, he is. He's always reminded Sam of a lion—bold, leonine features, tawny hair brushed back from his face. Sam keeps one arm tight around Quinn's shoulders as he moves to stand beside her, lifting his chin to look her father in the eye.

"Happy Hunger Games, sir," Sam says coolly, and the mayor inclines his head.

"Happy Hunger Games."

To his daughter, the mayor says, "It's time to go, Quinn."

She shakes her head, minutely but firmly. "I'm going with Sam."

Something inscrutable moves in her father's eyes like a predator through tall grass, but he doesn't argue with her. "Fine."

Abruptly, Russell turns on his heel and walks away, toward the town square where the people of the district gather for the reaping. Sam pulls her against his chest again, kissing the top of her head. "He's right," he says. "We should go."

Quinn nods, and they follow her father up the street, Sam's arm still firmly around her waist. She leans her head into his shoulder as they walk, and he thinks about how normal they look—two young lovers, walking through town on a beautiful summer day, wrapped around each other.

They reach the square just as the rest of the crowd begins to trickle in, and even though he knows they have to separate, it doesn't make letting her go any easier. "Everything is going to be fine," he says, his lips by her ear. "We're going to get through this reaping, and I'll meet you by the river after dinner tonight, okay?"

She closes her eyes for a second, and then looks up at him. "Okay."

Sam kisses her briefly, chastely, because he refuses to believe that this might be the last time.

"I love you," he tells her. "I'll always love you."

"I know." She reaches up to pull his face down, placing a kiss against his forehead.

It feels like he's stretching a cord to the limit, straining against an inexpressible weight, as he walks away from her to join the group of other seventeen-year-old boys. A few nod to him, some even manage a grim smile, and Sam nods back at them.

On stage, Russell Fabray sits next to Saxby Grrifin, the Capitol representative whose hair looks as though it was molded out of plastic, moving in a thick black wave away from his forehead. His suit is crisp, clean, and the most horrid shade of pink Sam has ever seen.

There is a third chair, but its occupant is so slight and pale that the eye almost skips right over her.

Judy Fabray, Quinn's mother, and the only victor their district has ever had. Sam has never heard her speak above a murmur, never seen her display any sort of emotion at all. He thinks she's part of the reason Quinn always asks to meet him at his house or the river, but every time she talks about home, her eyes go cold and she pulls away from him; so Sam eventually learned to stop asking.

Saxby stands up, tapping on the microphone a few times, and a screech of static makes the occupants of the square flinch. "Sorry, everyone," he says, his voice smooth, mellifluous. "Well, I wish you all a Happy Hunger Games!"

He spreads his arms wide, as if he wants to embrace the lukewarm applause from the crowd. Smiling so hard that he shows every one of his astonishingly white teeth, Saxby dips his hand into the bowl containing the girls' names. "And now, our lady tribute."

Swirling his fingers through the slips of paper, Saxby seizes one and pulls it out with a flourish. Sam closes his eyes.

"Quinn Fabray!"

Judy screams.


	2. Chapter 2

_Quinn_

In a way, she isn't even surprised.

She doesn't look back at Sam. His devastation would undo her, and she can't afford that right now. Instead, she keeps her eyes on the roof of the Justice Building behind the stage, her mouth set and her expression flat.

Her mother screamed once and then fell silent, rocking back and forth in her chair with her fingers caging her face. Saxby is smiling as her as she mounts the steps, holding out his hand, and he draws her to his side, peering with theatrical concentration into her face.

"Ah," he says, turning back to the crowd. "It's always sad when they're so beautiful, isn't it?"

Behind her, Quinn hears her father make a sound that makes her think of a puppy she had when she was little, how it hadn't been able to sleep the first night it was away from its mother—a broken, delicate whimper, the sound of a creature that is utterly and completely lost. She can't remember the last time Russell displayed any real emotion, let alone toward the daughter he always wished was a son.

"And now," Saxby is saying, although his voice seems oddly distant now, as if traveling to her across a vast field, "to find out which lucky lad will be our male tribute."

Now her eyes flick over to Sam without her permission, finding his face as easily in the crowd as if he stood alone in the square. He's ashen and swaying, his mouth quivering, but she knows he won't allow himself to break down just yet.

Tonight, by the river, underneath the tree that bears their initials that he carved into the bark last summer, he'll cry and scream and rage. She knows this, because on the train hurtling toward the Capital, she'll be doing the same thing. But for now, they're both silent, their agony close to the surface but not spilling over yet.

"Tarquin Jude!"

The boy, a fourteen-year-old whose blood drains from his face at the sound of his name, doesn't even have time to step forward before there's a sharp cry from the group of seventeen-year-olds who stand several yards in front of him.

"I volunteer!"

_No!_

Whether Quinn actually gives voice to this shard of a word or not, she isn't sure, but she is aware of her knees buckling beneath her, of Saxby gripping her elbow tightly to keep her upright. The crowds part for Sam, all of them murmuring, some of them reaching out to touch his shoulders or his hands, as if they are all saying goodbye to a hero.

She can feel tears straining at her eyes, immeasurable pressure building up in her throat, and she can almost taste the salt. But the eyes of the entire country are on her now, including those of her competitors, and can't afford to fall apart just yet.

"What are you doing?" she asks, and her voice shakes, just the tiniest bit. "Sam, you can't. You just—you can't."

"It's too late now," he says flatly. "I volunteered. I'm in the Games."

Saxby is deep in conversation with her father, his gaze flicking from Russell's face to Quinn's. When he approaches the microphone again, his expression is suitably tragic.

"What we have here," he says, "are two young lovers who could not bear to be parted."

Throwing her arms around Sam's neck, hiding her face from the crowd and the cameras, she presses her lips against his ear. "We're both going to die now," she hisses. "What were you thinking? Why would you do this?"

Sam's arms wind around her waist. "I would rather die fighting by your side than live my life without you," he says, his voice still oddly cold, mechanical, not like Sam at all, an antithesis to his words. "I wasn't going to let you go into the arena alone."

A hand lands on her shoulder, and Quinn looks up to see Saxby, his expression softer now beneath his bizarre hair, making it seem as though he is somehow two people combined into one.

"You have to go inside now," he says gently. "It's time to say your good-byes."

Usually, tributes say good-bye to their loved ones separately, but Quinn and Sam won't let go of each other and the Peacekeepers don't push it. Maybe it's because they're afraid of her father, or maybe they're actually moved by Sam's gesture, but either way, they allow them to be shepherded into one of the Justice Building offices together.

Once the latch has clicked soundly into place, she slaps him.

He yelps more out of surprise than pain, she thinks, since he ducked most of the blow. Even so, Sam presses his hand to his cheek, his eyes wide. "Quinn?"

"Do you think what you did was noble?" she asks, the first cracks beginning to spider through her sense of control. "You're going to _die, _Sam. Don't you think I was scared enough already? I can't—I can't watch while someone kills you."

"I just wanted to protect you," he whispers, looking not at her but _through _her, emotion beginning to creep back into his voice. "I just wanted to be there when—"

When he comes back to her, when his eyes fasten on hers with recognition, she almost wishes that he hadn't. Just as she'd known it would, his pain only doubled hers, his fear mating with hers and creating a monster.

And yet, just as she threatens to slip over the edge and fall apart completely, she only wants to reach out and help keep Sam together.

"Come here," she says, and he dives for her embrace like a child fleeing to his parents' bed from a nightmare. "Listen to me, okay? Listen to me, Sam."

She pulls back just enough to be able to cradle his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her. His breathing is erratic, his lips parted, an absolutely animalistic look of terror on his face, but the longer she meets his eyes, the calmer he becomes.

"We're going to protect each other," she says quietly. "We're going to do everything we can to keep each other safe, and then—"

The rest of her sentence sticks in her throat, but she sees when he finishes it for her. He starts shaking his head rapidly from side to side, pulling back from her with such horror on his face that his stomach turns.

"No," he says. "No, no, no, no."

"Sam, they can only have one winner," she says, reaching for him, but he backs away, still shaking his head. "We can't both come home. And if it's not me, it has to be you."

"_No._" Sam answers, almost wailing. "No, Quinn. I can't, I can't, I could never."

"Someone in that arena is going to have to kill me," she says, raising her voice when Sam puts his hands over his ears, and then he grabs his wrists and pulls them down. "And I'd rather it be you than some stranger who isn't going to bother with making it painless."

"What about me?"

"You're going to win," she says fiercely, firmly. "And you're going to go home."

He shakes his head, not frantically like before, but almost as though he's bemused. "I don't care about going home," he murmurs. "Not without you."

Sam touches her cheek, his thumb brushing gently across her cheekbone. "What part of 'I would rather die fighting by your side than live my life without you' don't you understand?" he asks, and when he kisses her, she swears she can taste the bitterness of his words on his lips.

Before Quinn can say anything, or even kiss him back, the door opens, framing her parents first. They enter with Sam's family right on their heels.

"Son," Dwight Evans says. "_Why?_"

His mother is crying silently, one twin on each hand. Stevie looks at Sam with wide, frightened eyes, and Stacy has her thumb in her mouth, even though Quinn knows she hasn't sucked her thumb in almost a year.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispers, letting go of Quinn and moving toward his family. "I'm so sorry, I never wanted to leave you. I never thought I would. But I can't let Quinn go in there alone. I just can't."

Russell and Judy stand off to the side, and she turns to them. Her mother's lips move, and she leans forward to hear her better. "Mama? What is it?"

"You can win."

"Mama, no."

"You _can,_" she says, with more volume and vehemence than Quinn has ever heard from her before. "You're strong and clever. You're a fast learner, you can pick up a skill in training."

Judy draws her close, gripping her arms so tightly that she feels all the blood rush to her fingertips. "But you can't try to save him. If you're going to survive, you're going to have to let him go, Quinny."

Looking over her shoulder, Quinn can barely see Sam through the knot of family surrounding him. Mary Evans is still crying, but Stacy has pulled her thumb out of her mouth so she can wrap both arms around Sam.

"I can't do that, Mama," she says. "I'm sorry. I just can't."

Judy opens her mouth to speak, but is interrupted by a Peacekeeper shouldering through the door. "It's time for you all to go," he says, his voice muffled by the visor he's lowered over his face.

Sam's mother lets out a small, choked sob, reaching out to pull Sam into her arms one last time. "Oh, my boy," she whimpers, stroking his hair. "My poor, brave boy."

As he ushers them out, the Peacekeeper turns his face toward them, his expression invisible from behind the visor. He inclines his head slightly at Sam, then Quinn, before he closes the door behind him. Sam gazes at the door as if he can't shake the image of his family from his mind; he closes his eyes, and she thinks he's trying to commit it to memory.

She takes this time to grab his wrist, pulling his attention back to her. "Sam, please, you have to listen to me," she begs. "They'll be here to take us to the train any minute. This is the last time we'll really be alone."

Sam turns his head to look at her, his eyes too bright. "This is the last time we'll really be alone," he echoes. "And you want to spend it talking about whether or not I'm going to kill you?"

He cups her cheek with one hand, as delicately as though she is a dream that will be snatched away if he is too rough. "I was going to marry you," he says quietly, with such regret in his voice that it feels as though someone is rending her into pieces. "I was going to spend my life with you, just you, only you."

Quinn leans her cheek into his hand, closing her eyes. "I love you."

"I love you, too, Quinn. Nothing could ever change that."

She isn't surprised when she feels his lips against hers, or about the words that fall against them a few seconds later.

"I'll do it."

Even though this is what needs to happen, even though it should feel like a victory, Quinn just wants to cry. "I know."


	3. Chapter 3

_Sam_

When he is alone for the first time since he woke up this morning, Sam dives for the bathroom and empties the contents of his stomach so violently that his eyes tear up and his stomach muscles seize with fire.

He sits back and wipes his sleeve across the back of his mouth, allowing himself to pretend that the moisture trickling down his cheeks is from the vehemence of his sickness. It isn't until a choked whimper escapes that Sam buries his face in his hands and truly cries, sobs wracking his frame until it seems like his bones are clicking together, his wrist stuffed into his mouth in an attempt to muffle the noises.

It's funny, in a bleak, bitter way, that the one person he would turn to right now, when he's in such despair that he physically aches with it, is the person who is contributing to the pain.

Part of him can't believe she would actually ask this of him, but when he thinks about it, Sam knows he would do anything for her—so it isn't surprising that shrewd, observant Quinn knows it, too.

He can't think about it, not yet, because then he won't last long enough to get to that point. The only truly humorous thing about this is that she actually believes he can win, although Sam is fully aware this isn't true.

He's the son of an apothecary, naturally athletic and stocky, but with no real skills apart from strength. And even then, it's no match against the Careers, the kids from the wealthy districts who have been trained for this their whole lives. The knowledge of his imminent death has been percolating in his mind since the moment he volunteered, and now the only thing that matters is keeping Quinn safe for as long as possible.

Yes, keeping her safe for as long as possible, and then—

Lurching to his feet, Sam makes a beeline for her room without needing anyone to direct him there, as if he is pulled to her by a natural magnetism. She's stretched out on the bed, gazing up at the ceiling, and she sits up when he enters the room.

"Would you do it for me?" he asks, and he doesn't need to elaborate.

She doesn't answer him immediately. Instead, she makes room for him on the bed, curling onto her side so that they're spooning when he lies down beside her.

He slides his arm around his waist, tucking his face into the thick, fragrant hair at the nape of her neck. It reminds him of the first time they made love, almost a year ago now; he thinks about the wet heat, about the way her fingernails dug into her back, about the sound of her voice scraping against the edge of his name as she cried it out, over and over again.

The inside of his boxers tighten, and he starts to pull away, mumbling, "I'm sorry."

Quinn stills him with her hand on his wrist. "Don't go."

She rolls over, nudging his hip with her knee until he's on his back. When she straddles him, her hair falls over his face, brushing against his cheeks and filling his senses with the scent of apples. Sam closes his eyes and his hips buck up without his control as her hands move to the button of his pants, and by the time they're both undressed, he's already whimpering in the back of his throat.

Quinn takes him inside of her, and he grips her thighs, fingers digging into the delicate flesh. He takes his bottom lip between his teeth, head sinking back into the lush pillow, as she begins to rock down onto him and he pumps his hips up to meet her.

She tips her face up, soft sighs slipping from her lips. He knows when she's close because her pace increases, and he moves his hands up to her ribs, palms splayed across her skin. He forces himself to focus on her as she is now, moving on top of him, gaze almost languid with pleasure, instead of on the fact that there will never be another moment like this.

There will never be another moment when they're this close, this connected. There will never be another moment when he can use his touch, his kisses, his body to show her how much he loves her.

He props himself up on an elbow and presses his mouth hungrily to her breasts, her collarbone, her neck. His teeth pinch at her delicate skin, sucking, tongue flicking out to taste the salt. Quinn wraps her legs around his waist, pushing him in deeper, and he bites his tongue so hard to quiet himself that he can feel cooper flooding his mouth.

She comes with a muffled moan, and Sam only has to move into her twice more before he hits his release.

Tucking the blankets close around them both, Quinn lays her head on his chest, and his arms wrap around her. For a moment, with his heart still pounding, the warmth of her body lulling him into a trance, Sam can almost forget where they are; it's almost as though they've snuck down to the river, or to the attic storage space above the apothecary.

But as he begins to calm down, reality sets back in, and when he presses his lips to her hair, his cheeks are slick with saltwater again.

"Yes," she says, after a long moment.

"Hmm?"

"I would do it for you."

His touch is gentle, as it always, fingertips brushing up and down her side, but his tone is harsh. "What makes you think I'll be able to live with myself afterward?"

She props herself up on one elbow to look into his face. "You have to," she says quietly. "Otherwise, it will all be a waste."

For the first time in three years, he tries to picture his life without Quinn—without the light touch of her hand across the nape of his neck when she greets him with a kiss, without the honey tint of her green eyes, without the silken rhythms of her body moving with his.

It's an idea that picks at his soul, like a vulture devouring carrion. Sam doubts he'll ever be able to close his eyes after—afterward without picturing it, however it happens, without feeling her life soak into the ground.

"I love you," he says, because he can't think of anything else to say, and because he honestly doesn't know how many opportunities to say it there are left.

"I love you, too."

Sam brings his hand to her hair, smoothing it back from her face. His fingers comb gently through the golden strands, and despite everything, he feels a sort of calm settle over him.

He doesn't realize that he hasn't stopped crying until Quinn sits up and brushes at his cheeks with her fingertips. "Don't," she says, her voice oddly muted, as if there is something lodged in her throat. "Don't, please."

Sitting up, drawing her to his chest, Sam tucks his face against the curve of her neck. "There will be no one else after you," he tells her. "There won't be anyone at all, Quinn. I could never love anyone else."

He feels her shake her head, her chin brushing against his scalp. "I don't want you to be alone."

Sam looks up at her. "Without you, I'll only ever be alone."

She presses her palm to his cheek and his eyes slip shut, and suddenly, he's so incredibly tired that he's curled up against her before he is aware of his body slumping over. "I should go back to bed," he murmurs, and he feels her hand rubbing against his back.

"You are in bed," she says.

The transition from wakefulness to sleep is as seamless as ever, but his dreams are rough, turbulent. They're full of blood—creeping over Quinn's ivory skin, staining his clothes; turning the froth in a rushing river pink; a single ruby drop beneath one of Quinn's blank, open eyes.

He wakes up in the nest of her lap, sitting up to discover her head tilted back against the wall, her hands falling to her sides from their perch in his hair. Sam rocks her knee gently. "Wake up," he mumbles. "It's time to wake up."

Sam watches her eyelashes flutter, the delicate little shadows dipping down her cheekbones before disappearing in the light. She pushes away from the wall, the only sound the rustling of the bedclothes as she moves. He brushes his fingers up her thigh and she offers him a faint smile.

"Training starts today," she says quietly, but calmly, as if pointing out that there are rainclouds on the horizon and it looks like rain.

He doesn't want to talk about training, or the Games. He doesn't even want to think about it. All Sam really wants to do is wrap his arms around her and sleep in this large, incredibly comfortable bed, the softest, thickest mattress he's ever slept on his life. He wants to hold Quinn until her breathing evens, and he can watch the innocence that comes with a dreamless sleep settle over her features.

"Are you scared?"

The words are in his voice, but he isn't aware of speaking them, or even thinking them. People, including Sam himself, have accused him of being stupid or at least a little slow on the uptake every now and then, but this truly takes the cake of an absolutely idiotic, inane question.

Of course she's scared.

"Not of what you'd expect," she answers softly. "Not of dying. I trust you."

A chill sinks its fangs into the nape of his neck. _I trust you._

"I'm afraid of something happening to you," she continues, brushing her fingertips across his cheek. "I'm afraid of not being able to protect you."

"What would you do if someone—?" Sam starts, but stops at the expression that flickers across Quinn's face like a flame-born shadow across a wall.

"If anyone lays a finger on you, I'll make sure they're punished for it," she says, and he has to fight the urge to flinch away from her.

There's a light knock on the door, and it opens just enough to permit Saxby's face as he nudges it between the door and the frame. He doesn't seem to be surprised at all to see them in the same bed, and Sam swears that Saxby winks at him.

"Breakfast," Saxby says cheerfully. "Come on, come on, the biggest perk you'll be able to enjoy is this delicious food."

_Yes, _Sam thinks. _It's almost worth being gathered like sheep for slaughter if we get to sample Capitol food. _

Sam watches Quinn's lip curl back from her teeth, a sneer that borders on a snarl. He takes her hand, squeezing gently, and it seems to bring her back to herself. "Come on, angel," he says, and they follow Saxby to the dining car.

The table is laden with more food than either Sam or Quinn have ever seen in their life, and they're both from the relatively wealthier part of their district, the merchants that have what is considered to be a steady income, even if the amount isn't what anyone would call substantial. There are tureens of broths swimming with meat, spices, and vegetables; platters heaped with roast beef, chicken, turkey, ham; bowls of mashed potatoes, rolls studded with nuts, of salads full of ripe, red tomatoes and translucent green cucumbers.

Set among pitchers of fruit juice, water, and what Sam thinks may be wine, candles are lit, their flames flickering with the motion of the train. Saxby claps his hands together, beaming.

"We though the ambient light would be suitable for young lovers," he says, with a wink that is meant to be cheeky and conspiratorial but only puts the snarling sneer back on Quinn's face.

"It's daylight," she says. "Doesn't that sort of ruin the atmosphere?"

In answer, Saxby presses a button set into the wall, and shades drop over the windows, entirely blocking out the early morning light. "There we go," he says, with an air of contentment. "Perfect."

Unthinkingly, because it's always what he does, because it's how his mother raised him, Sam pulls out Quinn's chair for her. Saxby coos.

"How sweet!"

She angles her chin up to whisper in Sam's ear. "Do you think it counts in the Games if I kill him first?"

For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, he laughs.


End file.
